


A Light in the Dark

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Following the tumult and disappointment of the July Revolution, Courfeyrac and Enjolras garner some inspiration from each other.





	A Light in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts).



August 1830.

It was so very dark and hot, _oppressively hot_ , when Courfeyrac awoke. He meant to demand loudly that someone open a window to let in the summer air; perhaps there was a chance that one of his friends had spent the night at his place, as so many of them had done during the past few weeks of busy preparations. No one answered him, for the only noise that managed to escape him was a thin, pained sound. 

He cracked his eyes open to see the window already ajar, the curtains blowing in the light nighttime breeze, but no fresh air seemed to reach him. He rolled over, trying to edge closer to it, wanting to rid himself of this awful, _awful_ heat. Surely, he thought, the summertime had never before been this hot. The heat seemed to almost stifle him from the inside, making him think it would be easier to give up on breathing altogether, but he gasped instead as a terrible pain shot through his left arm. Courfeyrac curled in on himself, confused and no longer knowing where he was—the bed and window and curtains, he now realized, did not belong to him after all.

In the dark, a light appeared, and Courfeyrac turned his head to look at it; it was a match struck and held in shaking hands to light a candle on the bedside table. The candle, so bright in the darkness of the room, dazzled him, and he tried to inch towards it. One of the hands came to rest on his shoulder, and he stilled as he heard Enjolras’ quiet voice say, “Be easy. Combeferre says you have an infection.”

“Combeferre?”

“I’ve sent him home to rest.” A pause. “I will be here, should you need anything.”

Courfeyrac rolled over gingerly to face his friend, confused until he saw Enjolras’ face illuminated in the dark. Then he remembered—remembered the vast crowd outside the Hôtel de Ville pressing in on them, remembered himself swaying where he stood half-fainting with pain from where a stray bullet had grazed his arm, remembered feeling yet more ill as he watched the carefully fabricated tricolor display of Lafayette and Louis-Philippe on the balcony as Bahorel’s loud voice filled his ears with shouts of _Traitor!_

More than all that, he remembered turning to look at Enjolras, as he so often did when their circumstances were at their most dire and he felt in need of that particular combination of friendship and inspiration. The sight before him, however, had done nothing to comfort him—it had unsettled him to his very core. Enjolras’ pale and austere face had gazed back at him, though then as now, it was undeniably altered. The rosiness was gone from his cheeks, the steady and implacable gaze turned hollow, his whole countenance shifted to something oddly and horribly blank, like a fire doused with frigid water.

Never mind the bloodshed, the torn up streets, the sight of the wounded and dying during those three days of fighting—Courfeyrac had been prepared for all of it. That blankness in Enjolras’ eyes had been the worst thing he had ever seen. It had been the last thing he remembered before his memory had gone dark, before waking up here in Enjolras’ bed, and he almost wished he could black out again rather than be faced with it.

With a very great effort, Courfeyrac stretched out his hand. “Enjolras, are you- are you all right?” It was an inadequate question, and he knew what the true answer was, no matter how Enjolras replied in actuality, but he was too dizzy to think of a better way to ask.

“Yes, only tired.”

“Then sit down, won’t you?” Courfeyrac could hear the edge of desperation in his own voice. He touched the empty space on one side of the bed, and Enjolras obliged him by settling himself there, though he did not say anything more. Courfeyrac looked at him again, at his worn face and slumped shoulders, and then turned his eyes to the ceiling where the candlelight barely reached. He drew in a shaking breath.

“It’s all over, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

This answer was not at all what Courfeyrac had wanted to hear. He knew, deep down, that a loss of faith and hope from Enjolras was an impossible thing, and that after the past few weeks of preparations, of fighting, of waiting, of having their hopes dashed, he had every right to be exhausted, but Courfeyrac could not bear to see it. It seemed at odds with every natural law for Enjolras to be aggrieved. Courfeyrac stretched out a hand again, wanting to give him some kind of contact, but was in too much pain to reach Enjolras’ arm to grasp it.

“No, it isn’t over,” he said, as firmly as he could manage with his brain clouded by fever. “Yes, you are right, this single fight is over. It- it is the worst of setbacks, but we will recover. There will be other days and other fights to be had, and setbacks or no, we will succeed in the-“ He trailed off, both because this burst of speech had made his head swim again, and also because Enjolras’ expression had warmed significantly; he was almost smiling. Courfeyrac blinked up at him. “What is it?”

“It just seems odd that you in your current condition would seek to comfort me,” Enjolras replied, laying a hand on Courfeyrac’s forehead briefly, as if to check his fever. “Though I confess myself unsurprised. You are merely keeping with the generosity I have admired in you these past years.”

Quite a different warmth than his fever flooded Courfeyrac’s chest, and he moved again on the bed, inching out of the way to make room for Enjolras to lay down. “You need sleep, my friend—you are becoming almost sentimental. Please come here.”

At first, it seemed as though Enjolras would immediately heed him again, but then he hesitated. “You need your own space to rest and recover unhindered.”

“Perhaps,” said Courfeyrac, with a well-honed expression of pleading, “I will rest and recover faster if you are here.”

Enjolras shook his head but again obliged him, and lay on top of the coverlet at Courfeyrac’s side. Even despite the heat and pain, Courfeyrac settled close to him, resting his head against his friend’s shoulder.

“There, you see,” said Courfeyrac quietly. “My healing has begun already.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras noised, though Courfeyrac thought he sounded rather pleased. “If you feel you should need a more practical sort of healing, Combeferre has left a bottle of laudanum for you.”

“No, no—I’d rather keep my wits about me.”

“You are in pain.”

“As I said, I feel better already.” To prove this, Courfeyrac burrowed himself more snuggly against Enjolras’ side. His statement was sincere—the weight of loss in his heart had lifted significantly and, having noticed this, marveled over it for a short while. “Enjolras, you- you always seem to shed light on everything, even when circumstances are at their darkest.”

“Hmm,” said Enjolras again. “It may be, but I have learned that light does little without warmth.” Though he did not continue, Courfeyrac felt him relax next to him, and press his cheek to Courfeyrac’s tousled hair.

“I suppose we should lie low for a short while, to avoid drawing suspicion upon our group,” Courfeyrac said after a moment, finally feeling on an even keel again. “Contact our allies, see where they all stand. I expect you plan to call a meeting soon to reestablish our footing? It will all be a great deal of work.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac saw Enjolras give a true smile at last. “Yes, though it should not be such a daunting task,” he said. “As long as you are there alongside me.”


End file.
